


the subtle art of avoiding the issue at hand

by writer_on_fire01



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Denial of Feelings, Detention, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, I don't know, I'm Bad At Tagging, Light Angst, Sort Of, have fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26129119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writer_on_fire01/pseuds/writer_on_fire01
Summary: Paris is bad at feelings. Rory, surprisingly, is even worse.
Relationships: Lorelai Gilmore & Rory Gilmore, Paris Geller/Rory Gilmore
Comments: 27
Kudos: 138





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> note to say that I'm not entirely sure when in the canon timeline this would take place, maybe around their junior year? imagine it whenever, so long as they're still in chilton it'll work. More later.

Rory can feel Paris glaring daggers into the back of her head.

She can’t help but wonder, _why?_ It’s not like Paris gets anything out of it. Rory can’t even see her from where she’s sitting. And, despite what Paris would like Rory to believe, Paris has no genuine reasons to hate Rory, who’s sure it’s just a stunt to intimidate her.

Sometimes, though, when Paris makes an effort to stare menacingly at the back of her head during chemistry, or Rory hears her ranting to Madeline and Louise about her when she’s completely out of sight, it really seems like Paris genuinely just hates her guts for no reason.

That’s not it, though; there are the glares, the sideways scowls and the dirt Paris is constantly trying to dig up on her, but Rory also occasionally notices Paris looking at her...almost fondly. No matter how hard Rory tries she cannot begin to fathom what’s going on in that girl’s head. 

“Miss Geller?” The chemistry teacher, a balding man with a full beard with half-moon glasses addresses Paris. 

Rory feels the unrelenting rage of just a moment earlier fade away as Paris perks her head up attentively. “Yes, Mr. Knewton?” 

“While I have not the pleasure of knowing why you’ve spent the last--” Mr. Knewton makes a show of peering at the watch on his wrist. “--twenty-seven minutes glowering at the back of Miss Gilmore’s chair, I would prefer that you shift your attention to page five-hundred of your workbook.” 

“Mr. Knewton, I _have_ been paying attention to the workbook,” Paris assures him hurriedly. “I’m quite unsure as to what you’re referring to.” 

By now, the eyes of all of their classmates are on them--mostly Paris, but some are looking curiously at Rory as well--as Mr. Knewton saunters over to Paris’s desk. “Yes, yes. I’m sure this is how you have landed yourself on page four-hundred-fifty-two.” 

Rory very nearly chokes on the breath she’d been inhaling. Paris on the wrong page of the workbook is about as unlikely as if Dr. Phil had come bursting through the wall of their classroom riding a rhinoceros. 

The rest of the class seems to think so as well, and they’ve burst into a bout of cackles that lights an inexplicable flame of anger in Rory’s chest, and before she can help herself she’s giving her own input on the subject. 

“Mr. Knewton?” 

The teacher whirls around sharply. Now the eyes of all of their classmates are on Rory. “Yes?” 

“Excuse me, sir, for suggesting that perhaps calling her out in front of the whole class was not entirely necessary.” 

Instantly, Mr. Knewton is on the alert and Paris’s fiery gaze is back to burning holes through Rory’s skull, now more intensely than ever. “Did I _ask_ for your opinion, Miss Gilmore?” 

Rory shakes her head politely. “No, Mr. Knewton.”

“And so why did you feel as though it would be welcome?”

In a fleeting attempt to calm herself, Rory takes a deep breath. “Well, I don’t necessarily know why I thought it would be welcome when I suppose Chilton’s students must constantly refrain from speaking their minds.” 

Now Rory knows that she has gone too far. So does the rest of the class, as she’s now got their undivided attention. Mr. Knewton, meanwhile, has turned completely red and is moving in a way that one could only describe as vibrating. “Miss Gilmore, Miss Geller, detention.”

Paris’s face goes white, and her jaw drops in horror. Where anger had been a moment before, Rory now feels guilt. “But, Mr. Knewton--” Paris begins, only to be interrupted. 

“Don’t you _start_ with me, Miss Geller. You have failed to follow directions for an entire half hour and Miss Gilmore over here has decided to talk back to her teacher. Both you and your little _friend_ are all too deserving of an evening’s detention.”

“ _She’snotmyfriend!”_ Paris snaps furiously, and it comes out sounding like a single word. 

“The both of you will be sent to detention regardless of the state of your relationship,” Mr. Knewton proclaims, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t quite know what’s gotten into either of you. My most attentive student abandoning all direction in favor of glaring at Miss Gilmore, and my most respectful student _talking back_ to me.” He says the phrase _talking back_ as though it is an unforgivable sin. 

A burst of shame pulses briefly through Rory’s body, and she ducks her head down meekly. “I’m sorry for talking back to you, Mr. Knewton.” 

When Mr. Knewton replies, he sounds less angry, but still firm and assertive. “I appreciate that, Miss Gilmore, however if you think apologies will get you out of detention then you are sorely mistaken.”

“I understand, Mr. Knewton,” Rory mutters defeatedly whilst Mr. Knewton ignores Paris’s indignant splutters. 

When they get out of class that day, Rory approaches Paris and opens her mouth to apologize for getting them detention when the latter violently shoves both hands into Rory’s back and pushes her, the force doubling Rory over before she has a chance to say anything. 

The remorse Rory feels vanishes like a coin from the palm of a magician’s hand. “Well, nevermind, then,” she huffs into thin air once she’s regained her ability to speak--of course Paris is long gone already. 

\---

Mercifully, Mr. Knewton elects to make their detention later in the week. This way Rory gets a chance to properly explain the situation to her mother before the school can do so first. It’s also beneficial since Rory has her hopes that by the day of the detention Paris will be less angry.

Paris actually _is_ less angry, but only marginally. She sits at one of the front desks, stiff as a board, staring down Mr. Knewton, who is having a bit of trouble acting unfazed. 

In fact, he seems relieved when Rory comes. “Miss Gilmore.” He smiles in greeting.

“Good evening, Mr. Knewton,” she responds politely. Mr. Knewton finally breaks away from Paris’s scrutinizing gaze.

“Alright. From now until six-thirty, you two will stay in this classroom. Miss Gilmore, choose a spot in the back of the room as to provide limited distractions for both you and Miss Geller.”

Rory dips her head respectfully, though she’s a bit disappointed that, seemingly, she will not be interacting with Paris. She can’t explain why this is, given that the last moment the two of them had really shared had ended with her hunched over and winded. She knows that Paris hates her and that she should be glad to get away.

Still, she can hardly bring herself to be mad with Paris, only mildly exasperated. Sometime in the last couple of days it had clicked that Paris’s being mean to her was probably just a coping mechanism, a way to expel the anger and anxiety that was the effect of the academic pressure piled onto her shoulders like boulders. 

Honestly, she feels a bit silly for ever really considering Paris a genuine enemy; she’s not malicious, rather a bitter highschool student trying to get through life with relative ease, something which has been made impossible for her by the expectation set. That being said, Rory is well aware that there are still no valid excuses for how cruel Paris has been to her. She’d really do best to just stay away, but she doesn’t want to. She wants to--

“Miss Gilmore, are you listening?” Mr. Knewton looks over at her appraisingly, peering over his glasses. Rory’s face burns; she thinks of the satisfied grin Paris is undoubtedly wearing. 

“Yes, Mr. Knewton.”

“Good. So, the two of you will spend your detention time writing one another letters.” He sighs, and Rory swears there’s a bit of amusement in it. “This is by the request of Headmaster Charleston himself, who believes that more communication between the two of you would resolve the perpetual conflict you seem to be in.”

Rory tries to exchange a bewildered glance at Paris, who won’t look at her back. She lets Mr. Knewton continue. “You shall spend the entire three hours on these letters so that you may have ample time to think about what you would like to communicate--and make sure to do so _politely_.” He eyes each of them meaningfully. “You may write about whatever you please so long as it’s respectful and school appropriate. We will not ask to read these letters, however if Headmaster Charleston finds out that either correspondence contains any disrespect, then suspension will be considered. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Rory confirms, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. She’d expected instructions to study. She had not predicted this. Still, she can’t help but be pleased. For the whole year all she’s really wanted is for Paris to actually communicate with her instead of just jumping to the most scandalous conclusions regarding her life, opinions on Paris, and academic behavior. 

Then there’s the tiny part of her that’s baffled about the fact that Headmaster Charleston cares at all. _Doesn’t he have better things to think about?_

“This is ridiculous,” Paris protests, looking horrified. “I don’t want to, and you can’t make me.”

“Very well, Miss Geller.” Mr. Knewton nods his head in a show of mock respect. “How would you like to tell this to the Headmaster?”

Paris says nothing.

“That’s what I thought.” He gives a wide smile. “Well, ladies, it’s time to begin writing. Remember that I’ll be here the whole time.”

Rory pulls a couple sheets of lined paper out of her binder, then grabbing a purple ballpoint pen from her pencil case. This is as far as she gets before she’s stumped, though.

If she’s being entirely honest with herself, Rory _knows_ that Paris will never read this. Paris will, in an act of defiance, throw it into the garbage can. The toilet. The garbage disposal. To the dog (does Paris have a dog? Rory would guess not). Hell, she may burn it and make s’mores over the ashes. 

A part of Rory wants to make the letter something genuinely meaningful, and yet she’s hesitant. It would hurt for Rory to bare her soul to Paris only to have three hours of writing burnt in some fancy-ass firepit, after all. Besides, if Paris _does_ read it, it will very likely be misconstrued as some sort of attack. So she instead taps into her creative writing skills, taking inspiration from one of her mother’s ridiculous dreams to write the following: 

_Stars Hollow Apocalypse: A Story by Lorelai “Rory” Leigh Gilmore_

_NOTE: this piece of creative writing is an attempt to reach out to one Paris Geller, for whom I have been instructed to formulate a letter. As this narrative represents our relationship with one another I felt it an appropriate way to express myself._

Rory studies it with satisfaction, figuring that if, for whatever reason, Mr. Knewton or Headmaster Charleston ends up reading it this will be an appropriate explanation. Even if they don’t quite buy it, they will have no way of proving that Rory wasn’t being entirely serious. She keeps going. 

_It all starts on a day that is, like most in the quaint little town of Stars Hollow, sunny. Lorelai Gilmore Senior bolts perkily out of bed, exchanging a large grin with the sun._

_“Heyo, Mr. Sun!” she chirps happily, throwing open the window and waving animatedly._

_“Hello, Lorelai!” the sun replies, smiling happily through large sunglasses. He sounds exactly like one would expect the sun to, voice containing the same easy cadence of that of an elementary school teacher._

_Lorelai skips happily down the stairs, only to be greeted by Lorelai Gilmore Junior (for the sake of the author’s hand we will henceforth refer to her as Rory)._

_“Hello, dear mother!” Rory grins widely, yielding a platter of a thousand poptarts._

_“Ah! My daughter! You’ve acquired poptarts!” cries Lorelai happily._

_“Yes, indeed! Luke gave them to me.”_

_“What a kind goblin he is,” Lorlai sighs fondly. “So what do you say we go pay him a visit?”_

_“Oh, can we?” Rory grins eagerly, throwing the platter of poptarts dismissively into the air. One after the other, they pop out of existence, floating out into another dimension. Lorelai hopes that the interdimensional creatures enjoy them._

The story ends up longer than Rory had initially expected. After Lorelai and Rory go to Goblin Luke’s, they see an explosion of color in the distance. As it turns out, the local rainbow factory has exploded, and the entire town but Lorelai has been infected with a new disease called The Rainbows. Kirk starts a cult, and all sorts of shenanigans ensue before Lorelai saves the day by drunkenly belting out a mind-altering Britney Spears song at the town karaoke night. 

Every so often as she writes, Rory looks over to see if she can make out any of the words on Paris’s page. She fails at this, and usually goes back to her own paper whenever Paris’s back goes rigid and she steals a glance at Rory, evidently having figured out that she’s being watched. 

Rory is almost disappointed when six-thirty rolls around, having to quickly wrap up the story. She’s able to tie up all of the major plot points except for Taylor’s, which revolves around his dying his mustache neon green and the town convincing him to shave it.

Mr. Knewton looks mildly confused as he walks by her desk, dropping a paper envelope on the edge and eyeing what has to be at least fifteen pages (front and back) of hurried writing. He doesn’t comment on it, though, instead just shrugging and raising his voice to address both girls. 

“Miss Gilmore, Miss Geller, thank you for remaining civil throughout this detention. You are both hereby forgiven for your respective offenses. Now, please exchange the letters you have written for one another.”

Rory grins broadly as she takes the thick envelope in her hand and walks it to the front of the room where Paris is sitting. She looks inexplicably nervous, teeth pressed lightly into her bottom lip. Too late, she attempts to masks the anxiety with a scowl as she reluctantly holds out her own envelope for Rory to take. 

“Thank you,” says Rory. It’s thin, and Rory’s sure it’s only one page, meaning it can’t be anything of too much substance. Then again, hers is practically novella length but never even directly addresses Paris, so who knows? 

She delicately places the envelope in her backpack as she exits the building. Paris is right alongside her, and yet never once spares her a glance, not even to say goodbye. The way she walks away from Rory and into her car is almost robotic. Rory sighs, sitting down on one of the front steps to text Lorelai. Usually she takes the bus, but since she’s three hours later than usual the bus is no longer available to accommodate her schedule.

“How was detention with Paris?” asks Lorelai perkily as they ride away.

“Weird,” is the word Rory decides on. “Mr. Charleston made her and I write letters to eachother.”

Lorelai looks at her with a curious expression. “For the whole three hours?” Rory nods her confirmation. “Why?”

“I don’t know!” Rory cries helplessly, throwing her hands into the air with exasperation. “Mr. Knewton says it’s because we might hate eachother less if we communicate. Apparently Headmaster Charleston was in on it, too. What does _he_ care?” Exhaustion finally creeping in, Rory buries her face into her hands.

“What did you write?” Lorelai wants to know. 

“Oh, just gibberish,” Rory tells her. “Remember that dream you had about the rainbow factory? I basically just wrote her a whole novel about that.”

Lorelai lets out a bark of laughter. “I don’t suppose you saved a copy for me?”

“No, I don’t think Mr. Knewton would’ve been so keen to let me at his copying machine,” Rory deadpans. 

“Well, tell Paris to give it when she’s done.”

“I figure she’ll probably destroy it,” Rory points out. “That’s why I didn’t bother actually with the whole letter thing.”

Lorelai hums with understanding. “Have you read hers yet?”

“No.” Rory rolls her eyes. “I think I’ll wait until tomorrow to read a bunch of passive aggressive comments about myself.”

“Not just outwardly aggressive? Why not?” Lorelai wants to know. 

“Mr. Knewton said he’d get us suspended if we were mean to eachother in the letters, and there’s no way she’ll have risked _that_.”

Lorelai nods in understanding. “Well, let me know if there are any gems. Knowing Paris, there will be.”

\---

_Dear Rory Gilmore,_

_I’m not actually all that mad at you for what happened earlier this week. You were just trying to defend me, which was pretty stupid of you. Actually, I take it back. I was mad at you, I was just mad at you for being stupid. Now I can’t even bash you for being the teacher’s pet. I’m honestly running out of things to bash you for, since you’re proving to be so damn nice. It’s starting to become a problem. You know that, Rory. Half of the time I’m convinced that it’s the reason you’re so nice in the first place. But sometimes I’m not so sure. Last month, I saw you rescue a praying mantis from being stepped on. You yelled at the kid to stop and everything, even though you were really stressed that day (I never did find out why). That’s a special brand of kindness, one that can’t be faked. I was trying to determine what’s so frustrating about your niceness the other day, and I think I’ve figured it out. It’s just that you don’t flaunt your virtue. Most self-proclaimed ‘nice’ people just do it so that they can say their nice, but you know what? Real, honest-to-God good people don’t brag about how good they are. It took me a stupid amount of time to figure that out, but who can blame me? I only know one good person, after all._

_Maybe I should have found some shitty person to throw my anger at instead. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel so guilty. Maybe then we could be friends. I could never be friends with you, though. You’re too good, but even beyond that it wouldn’t work. You live in your own little world of sunshine and rainbows. I should know. You’ve let me visit a couple of times. It was fun, but I belong in my world and you belong in yours and there’s nothing I can do about that, so I’d rather despise you for it._

_I think I’ve been lying to myself about the nature of our relationship, though. We’re not quite enemies, and we’re not quite friends. It’s taken me two painful years to accept that we’re in an entirely different realm, full of possibility...do with that what you will. Actually, nevermind. Do with that nothing. You shouldn’t have to have anything to do with me, let alone in a not-quite-enemies but not-quite-friends sort of way._

_Your colleague,_

_Paris Geller_

This is, inarguably, the most confusing letter Rory has ever received. It’s even more confusing than her mother’s writing, which is scattered and filled with nonsense.

First and foremost, Rory feels like a bit of an asshole for writing what she did when Paris seems to have genuinely taken the assignment seriously. In her defense, though, she never could have predicted that Paris would write anything real. Rory was sure that, even through writing, Paris would have felt the need to hide behind fake anger. Clearly, this had not been the case.

Then there’s the issue of the final paragraph, which Rory cannot begin to decipher. What the hell does any of that _mean?_ Rory bites her lip, pulling out a separate piece of paper. Neatly, she dictates the last paragraph onto it, skipping lines so that she can write notes between the rows in the same purple ballpoint pen she’d used to write her story. 

The first line, where Paris says _I think I’ve been lying to myself about the nature of our relationship_ makes a fair amount of sense. She’s referring to the fact that, for as long as they’ve known one another, Paris has thought that they were mortal enemies. Later in the paragraph she admits they’re not, though, so it’s not too confusing for Rory. She scribbles this down underneath the line.

Even the next two bits of writing are somewhat logical. _We’re not quite enemies, and we’re not quite friends. It’s taken me two painful years to accept that we’re in an entirely different realm--_ a bit dramatic, if Rory does say so herself, but it makes sense for the same reasons as the first line. She jots this down as well. 

It’s the last part that Rory is so thoroughly befuddled over. _We’re in an entirely different realm, full of possibility...do with that what you will. Actually, nevermind. Do with that nothing. You shouldn’t have to have anything to do with me, let alone in a not-quite-enemies but not-quite-friends sort of way._

Paris is referring to the potential of a relationship in which they are neither friends nor enemies, and Rory’s not entirely sure what that means. What type of relationship? And how would it be more painful than their being friends or nemeses? 

Rory makes a mental note to show the letter to Lorelai later to see if her mother can make sense of it. Knowing Lorelai this won’t do any good, but it’ll be nice to be able to share it with someone nonetheless. 

Besides, it takes one to know one, and Paris and Lorelai are both a bit mad. 

With a defeated sigh Rory pushes the letter back into the envelope, as well as her notes on it. She puts the whole thing in the bottom of a drawer in her desk before heading into her closet to grab her uniform. She has school to attend, after all. 

Still, she can’t stop thinking about the letter and the intimacy of it. Three relatively simple paragraphs and Paris has her entirely at a loss. Sure, Rory has known for quite a bit of time that Paris has emotions other than raging hatred, but to see Paris openly acknowledging this is, frankly, a little bit jarring. Rory can’t help but feel touched, though, that Paris has chosen her to share this with, and her saying that Rory is the only good person she knows does things to Rory’s heart. Paris deserves much better people in her life.

And then there’s the part where Paris essentially said she didn’t feel welcome in Stars Hollow--well not necessarily that, her exact words had been that _you live in your own little world of sunshine and rainbows_ but that _I belong in my world_ \--and this also makes her a little sad. She wonders if there’s anything she can do about it. 

Her heart does a strange skip at the idea of running into Paris at school that day after having read her letter. She dismisses it as nerves.

\---

“ _What the hell is this!?”_ Paris screeches it furiously, cheeks red as she waves a fistful of lined paper in Rory’s face.

It's hauntingly familiar lined paper, the pages covered in purple ink. Rory grimaces. “That’s, uh, I wrote a story.” She notices herself twiddling her thumbs. Huh, she’d been unaware that that’s something people actually do.

“No, Gilmore” Paris chokes harshly. “It’s not a story. It’s a joke.” 

“D-did you even read it?” Rory knows she shouldn’t even be trying to defend herself at this point, and yet she feels a little defiant. How had she been supposed to know that Paris would give her a sweet, heartfelt letter? 

“I didn’t _have_ to.” The glare Paris gives her brings Rory a twinge of guilt that she can’t quite get rid of. “I didn’t have to read it to know what it insinuates. I was wrong, and our relationship is just one big joke.” 

Rory gapes in protest. “Par--no! I just--”

“You said up here that this story represents our relationship.” Paris jabs an almost accusatory finger at the top of one of the pages. Rory’s heart plummets as she remembers that the paper does, in fact, say this. “Well, this story is a joke. So are we, right?”

She tries to stare Rory in the eyes but fails miserably, and ends up ducking her head down in what can only be embarrassment. Rory attempts to put a comforting hand on her shoulder only to have it jerked away. 

“Paris, I don’t think you understand,” she tries, knowing that her last-ditch attempt to curb the girl’s fury will fail miserably. Her and Paris have gotten over fights before, but it always takes at least a week and a half. “I was just--” She wants to say that she had been afraid that if she had been honest about her feelings Paris would brutally reject any notion of friendship, but she can’t quite get the words past her throat. 

“No. It’s fine.” Paris backs away, folding her arms over her chest. Then, she holds her hand out authoritatively. “Now give it.”

“Give what?” Now Rory is genuinely puzzled. She cocks her head in confusion. 

“The _letter_ ,” Paris seethes, the hand still at her side balled up into a fist. “Give me the damn letter.” 

“I don’t have it!” Rory puts her hands in front of her in some form of protection. “I left it at home.”

“That’s bull, isn’t it?” Paris eyes her harsh and suspiciously.

“No!” Rory spits, feeling herself begin to shake. She’d predicted that morning that Paris’s reaction to her ‘letter’ would be less than pleasant, but this is even worse than she’d thought. “Just give me a chance to try and explain myself, okay Par?”

“Don’t call me that!” Paris snaps. She glowers at Rory, taking her hand away. “You can take the letter. Just never speak to me again.” 

Just as she begins to walk away, Rory grabs at her wrist. “Wait! I still want to explain. Just let me, okay?”

“Can’t,” Paris says briskly, struggling to escape Rory’s grasp. “Class.”

“Class isn’t for another ten minutes.” Rory loosens her grip in Paris’s wrist. Then, gently, “please?” 

Finally Paris relents, her posture relaxing a little bit. “Fine.”

Rory takes a deep breath, wanting nothing more than to _not_ mess this up. _Here goes nothing,_ she thinks. “I wanted to write you a real letter. I really did. I just couldn’t.” She shrugs helplessly. “My mom does this thing where, whenever my grandma tries to ask her a question about her love life or whatever, she just makes some stupid joke instead, and I think I’ve picked up that habit from her.”

By some miracle, her words actually seem to be having a calming effect on Paris, though she’s still tense. “Okay,” she says cautiously. 

“A-and I really liked your letter. I thought it was sweet.”

Paris raises her eyebrows, her usual confidence returning briefly as she puts a hand to her hip. “Sweet, huh?”

“Yeah.” Something in Paris’s tone seems almost sarcastic. Rory just doesn’t understand why. “What’s wrong with sweet?”

“It’s condescending as hell, that’s for sure,” Paris scoffs, rolling her eyes, though Rory can see that the bulk of her anger is gone now, replaced with caution and hesitance. 

“I didn’t mean to be condescending,” Rory backtracks quickly. “I just mean that it’s not a side of you I’ve ever seen before. It’s nice to get into your head a little, is all. I never realized how much you cared about our friendship, and it’s nice to know. I do, too, and I’m so sorry ever you got the idea that I didn’t.”

There’s a moment where Rory has to brace herself--she never knows how Paris is going to react to what she says. Paris still doesn’t seem particularly angry, though, which has to be a good sign (right?). 

“How much I care about our friendship…” She says it carefully, delicately. “And that’s it?” 

“Yeah.” Rory’s not sure what Paris is getting at, but she’s more than happy to go along with it if it means she can amend her relationship with Paris in what could potentially be record time. “Because we _are_ friends, whatever you may think.”

Paris sags with visible relief. She still seems embarrassed, but, somehow, she’s missing the tense air of a moment ago. Again, Rory isn’t sure why this is but is far too wise to question it. 

“Friends.” 

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause, and then Paris says, “I lied, you know. I did read your story.” 

A wide grin spreads across Rory’s face. “Oh! Cool! Do you think I could get a publishing deal?”

“Absolutely not,” Paris responds, sounding completely confident in this answer. Then, shyly, “but it made me laugh.” 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Rory tells her, though she’s vaguely puzzled as to how Paris could have ever laughed at the very same story that had caused her such intense emotional anguish. It seems as though this is just how Paris works. 

Then the bell rings. Rory jerks up in surprise; she’d been unaware of the time when she and Paris had been talking. “Nice talking to you,” she says by way of farewell. 

Paris turns to walk away, and Rory is almost sure she mutters something about the _damn rainbow epidemic_. 

\---

“So how did school go?” Lorelai asks Rory the minute she gets home from school that day, even going so far as to switch off the TV, which had been playing some obscure comedy. 

“No _hello_ or anything?” Rory asks in a mockingly cross tone, raising her eyebrows at Lorelai.

“Hello. Now tell me how school went.” Lorelai fixes her with an annoying grin, evidently not letting her leave until she gets an answer. 

“And by that you mean tell you the latest updates to the trash fire that has been the situation with Paris,” Rory concludes, venturing further into the house and heading into the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee. 

“Yep!” confirms Lorelai from the living room. Rory returns, mug in hand, and sits down on the couch next to her mother to tell the story. 

“Well, we talked. Paris was really pissed with me at first--what else is new--but we had a chance to talk it out and I think it went pretty well. The situation with her is neutralized, at least for now.” 

“You put out the trash fire?” Lorelai wrestles the coffee mug from Rory’s hand, takes a gulp, and hands it back. Rory is so used to this that she doesn’t bother to comment on it, just rolling her eyes.

“Yeah. I’m still a bit confused, though.”

Lorelai turns to face Rory, then cocking her head with curiosity. “Confused how?”

Rory sighs, her head drooping. Hair falls around her shoulders, and she swipes it out of the way so she can still see Lorelai in the edge of her vision. “I don’t really know how to explain, but all through her letter and our conversation today, I just felt like I was missing something. Something Paris clearly expected me to get.”

Lorelai frowns thoughtfully, hand reaching up to her chin to stroke a nonexistent beard. “I think I have a theory,” she declares eventually. “It might be pretty far-fetched, though.”

At this point, Rory is willing to hear any sort of explanation for what has clearly been a blind spot in her field of emotional vision. “A far-fetched theory is better than no theory. Shoot.” 

“Let me read the letter first,” Lorelai requests, holding out her hand. Rory thinks about this, trying to determine whether or not it would be respectful of Paris to show her mother the letter (she’d wanted to before, but after their conversation she’s not so sure). Eventually she decides that, since she shares everything with her mother she might as well, so she heads to her room to pull the sheet of lined paper from the envelope. 

“Well, this is a first,” Lorelai comments. “You needing my help analyzing literature.” 

“It’s not exactly literature,” Rory points out.

“If Paris wrote it it is.”

“Alright.” Rory takes a deep breath after a moment, extending the paper to Lorelai. “What do you think? Does your theory check out?”

It takes Lorelai a couple minutes to scan through all of the writing on the page, muttering its contents under her breath. Rory watches anxiously (why is she anxious?) as Lorelai’s eyes float over the words. 

Eventually, Lorelai folds up the page, sucking in a breath as her eyes flicker back up to Rory. This is Serious Lorelai she’s looking at, which is weird because Rory genuinely can’t remember the last time she saw Serious Lorelai, let alone the last time her appearance led to something good.

“Oh, yeah. It checks out, alright. It checks out even better than I expected.” 

“Well are you going to _tell_ me?” Rory demands, starting to panic at the sudden appearance of Serious Lorelai. “Is she okay? Is she dying? Is this something we need to worry about?” 

Lorelai considers for a moment, biting concentratedly at her bottom lip. “No, but we already knew that.” Lorelai lets out a light huff of laughter and Rory is relieved that the serious is fading away. “Probably not, and it depends.” 

“Tell _me,”_ Rory persists through gritted teeth. 

“Okay.” Lorelai turns so that they’re facing eachother, taking Rory’s hands in her own as she announces, “Rory, she’s in love with you.” 

Rory finds herself snorting with laughter. After all of the buildup, she’d not really been expecting one of Lorelai’s jokes. “Alright, good one. You had me for a moment there.”

Yet Lorelai doesn’t burst into laughter, nor does the look on her face break into a smile. “No, really. I’m not yanking your chain or anything. She’s actually in love with you. In, like the romantic sense.” Rory looks at her with a dumbfounded frown, and she sighs. “Rory, sweetie, what with all I hear you ranting about heteronormity and historians straight-washing historical events, I wouldn’t have expected this from you.” 

“What do you _mean_ ?” Rory squawks, gawking once she realizes that Lorelai’s not actually pulling her leg. “What do you _mean_ , she’s in l- _love_ with me?” She cringes slightly at the word _love_ , and she can feel her heart pounding in her chest. 

Lorelai raises her eyebrows. “Kid, did you know that gay people are, like, actually real, or is this something you’re just learning now?” 

“Of course I knew _that_ ,” Rory scoffs, defensiveness momentarily replacing shock and disbelief. Then the shock and disbelief come back, because of course they do. “But there’s no way Paris can be interested in me. She hates me.” Still, her resolve is beginning to crumble as she realizes that Lorelai may have a point. She’s in denial, though, and is determined to put up a fight.

“Not according to this letter, she doesn’t.” Lorelai waves said letter in front of Rory’s face, then unfolding it and reading. “She says here that you’re _not actually enemies_ and that _you’re too good_ and the only reason she’s snippy with you is that she’d _rather despise you for it_. It’s all here, kid, if you know what you’re looking for.” 

“Okay, well…” Rory fumbles, deciding to change tactics, because Lorelai’s reasoning makes an alarming amount of sense. “Who signs off a love letter with _your colleague_?” 

“Paris does!” Lorelai shouts empathetically, then lowering her voice. “Sorry, that was a little loud. But really. Doesn’t she, of all people, seem like the kind of person who would do that?”

“She sort of does,” Rory admits, gaze suddenly shifting to her coffee. “But that doesn’t mean anything. She’d sign off of any letter like that regardless of the content or recipient.”

“True,” Lorelai allows, if a little reluctantly. “But, look. What was it that confused you about this letter?”

“The last paragraph,” says Rory hurriedly, mostly just glad that this is something she’s actually capable of answering. 

“Okay, well--and this is fun--the last paragraph is actually the most outwardly romantic part.” She leans in to let Rory see the words as well, then jabbing at them with her finger. “What does _it’s taken me two painful years to accept that we’re an entirely different realm_ mean if not _we’re super gay and I was in denial for two years_?” 

“ _We’re_ super gay?” Rory gawks at her mother, her heart speeding up. She feels like she’s about to vomit, and there’s an adrenaline in her veins that makes her want to get onto her feet and run away as quickly as she can. “Hold up. I thought we were talking about Paris’s feelings towards me. Not the other way around.” 

Lorelai lets out a quiet scoff, and Rory can feel her cheeks burn red. “What?” 

“You know what, forget it, kid. That’s a conversion for tomorrow. For now, I’ll leave you with this: Paris digs you. A lot. Get used to it.” Once she’s finished, she gives herself a satisfied nod, gets up and walks away, leaving Rory in an all-encompassing state of panic that can’t be stifled with obscene amounts of junk food.


	2. Part 2

Paris knows Rory is smart.

It’s sort of a given--they go to Chilton, after all. Even so, Rory is smart. Smarter than your average Joe, but also smarter than your average Joseph (Joseph being the prestigious version of Joe). 

Paris has always wished Rory was a little bit less smart, if just for the idea that, maybe if you took away two or three of her brain cells, Paris would no longer have to consider her a threat. She’s always felt a little smug when Rory gets math questions wrong or the date of a particular historical event a year off, but Paris can’t think of another occasion on which she’s been _so_ glad of Rory’s intellectual shortcomings. 

This is because, if Rory was any smarter--even marginally--she would, as of current, know exactly how Paris feels about her. While Paris had done this intentionally, she has no idea what she had been thinking and is so beyond relieved that Rory has not properly analyzed the letter that, if she were the crying type, she would be crying with relief. 

Now Paris gets a second chance at a relationship with Rory. _Not_ a romance, just a good friendship, because coming so close to potentially losing any chance of a platonic bond with the girl has Paris really appreciating the fact that they’re friends at all (because, contrary to the contents of her melodramatic letter, Paris _does_ believe that their relationship bears some semblance of friendship). 

The only problem is that Paris doesn’t quite know how to make friends. Rory is her only real friend, a relationship which Paris has acquired by pushing, shouting, and glaring at her at every turn. While she doesn’t have a very high EQ at the best of times, let alone regarding the girl on whom she’s had a massive crush for the past two years (damn it Paris, get _over_ it already!) she’s pretty confident that this is not how most people go about building friendships. 

Paris’s only condolence in this whole _making friends_ thing is the idea that, if she’s managed to gain Rory’s friendship by bullying her for two years, surely becoming her _good_ friend will be a piece of cake so long as she can manage to be polite. 

This is how Paris finds herself in Stars Hollow on a Tuesday evening. It’s five in the afternoon, which Paris deems a reasonable hour. The plan is essentially just that Rory will open the door, they’ll study together for the test they have in AP English for a couple of hours, and then Paris can go home. If she gets lucky Rory may let her stay a little past that but she won’t push her luck.

It’s so weird, deliberately seeking to be nice to Rory, especially after the letter she’d so dramatically written stating that she could never truly belong in Stars Hollow, a sentiment which she’d like to laugh at but that’s still just true enough not to be funny. 

Plus, somehow Paris gets more nervous at the idea of being nice to Rory than she does the idea of lashing out at Rory, to the extent that Paris feels a thin film of sweat on her palm as she closes her fist to knock on the door of the Gilmore residence. 

Nobody answers at first. Paris can hear the sound of somebody running, a sigh, and some exasperated shouting that she can only assume is normal for the Gilmores. She can’t quite make out anything except the words _door_ and _chinchilla_. She considers running off but forces her feet to stay put on the neon pink welcome mat beneath them. 

When the door finally opens, it’s not Rory but Lorelai behind it. She’s smiling amicably, but the way she’s standing says _I’m trying too hard to be casual_ and Paris has to wonder if she’s hiding some sort of money laundering scheme in her living room (or something).

“Paris,” Lorelai greets. “It’s been a while, nice to see you!” 

“Okay, so what’s up?” Paris wants to know, rolling her eyes. “You’re leaning oh-so-casually against the doorframe like some punk-rock drummer wannabe. I can practically hear you saying, _yeah, I listen to Metallica, what about it?_ or something along those lines. It’s not a good look.” She mentally slaps herself, remembering that she’s trying to be sociable today.

Lorelai frowns innocently. “This is just how I stand.” Still, Paris can’t help but notice her straightening up against the doorframe. “Besides, Metallica is metal.” 

Paris shrugs, not particularly bothered. “Well.” 

There’s a sort of awkward silence which Lorelai uses to glance back into the house for a moment before speaking again. “So you’re here for Rory?” 

Paris nods, feeling a lurch in her stomach. Still, she looks Lorelai in the eye and smiles. _And I’m accusing_ her _of acting too casual._

“Well, hon, Rory had a tragic accident with, uh, some dog poop earlier, so she’s taking a shower right now. She’s been in there for a while now, though, so I’m sure she’ll be out in a moment, so you can just, uh, come on in.” She steps away from the doorframe and violently begins beckoning Paris in. 

Paris is starting to lose some of her confidence, though, wondering if this is a good idea after all and whether or not she should feel lucky that Rory is unavailable. “Oh, that’s okay. I was just in the area for a project thing, so I was dropping by, but if it’s inconvenient I’ll leave now, just tell her I said hi…” Paris realizes she’s rambling. Paris never rambles. 

Lorelai dismissively waves a hand in front of her face. “No, no, that’s alright! She’ll be out lickedy-split, so you can just come on in. I’ll make you some tea.” She puts her hand on Paris’s back and begins forcibly shoving her inside. Paris opts to just let it happen. 

She notices that the living room does not seem to be housing any sort of money laundering scheme. This, if nothing else, is a relief. She lets Lorelai usher her hurriedly onto the couch, a little puzzled by the urgency of the woman’s insistence to host her as a guest.

“So, Paris,” says Lorelai, sitting across from her on the couch. “How’ve you been?” 

This is a question Paris has to think about a little, but when she finally comes up with an answer it’s fairly truthful and one of the longest polite, non-sarcastic sentences she’s said out loud to someone in a while. “Oh, alright. Lots of school stuff. I’ve had a lot on my mind, but all in all, I’ve been worse.” Then she remembers that it’s typically polite to reciprocate the question and adds, “how about you?” 

“Oh, I’m fine, too. Taylor’s been trying to rope us into helping him host this new festival thing. I’ve been trying to weasel my way out of it, but what can you do?” She shrugs.

It takes Paris a moment before she can place the name Taylor. “Green mustache?”

Lorelai’s eyes light up and she points at Paris with a grin. “Yeah!” 

“Oh. Yeah. I’ve only ever read about him in Rory’s story, but if she got the characterization right that definitely sounds like something he would do,” Paris tells her. 

“My Rory? I’m sure she got the characterization right,” says Lorelai dismissively. Paris has to agree with this; Rory really _is_ a great writer, even if her most recent piece is nothing more than three hours’ worth of gibberish. She nods. 

They sit in silence for a moment, Paris wondering if and when she’ll get a chance to talk to Rory. She probably will, but it still feels like she’ll never get away from Lorelai and her violently polite manner. 

“Oh, I said I’d make you tea, didn’t I?” Lorelai pipes up after a moment.

“No, that’s fine.” If she’s being honest, Paris is a bit of a tea snob, and the last thing she wants is the single chamomile teabag that’s been sitting in the back of the Gilmore pantry for at least a yea--

“I think I have some chamomile in the back of the pantry,” offers Lorelai.

“There it is,” Paris huffs. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” amends Paris in a mutter; she’s only trying to be accommodating, after all. 

Then, to Paris’s immense relief, Lorelai laughs. “Oh, man, what am I thinking? Of course you don’t want chamomile tea. It just tastes like hot water.” 

“I wasn’t going to say,” Paris agrees tentatively, “but that stuff is absolute shit.” 

Instead of being offended Lorelai just goes back to laughing, and it’s sort of a bonding moment between them. Of course Lorelai then shoots up and goes back to being extensively courteous, offering her a Slim Jim, leftover breadsticks from Olive Garden, and, finally, water. Paris says yes to the water just to be polite, but the feeling of the weight between her fingertips is actually quite calming to her nerves, so she’s glad to have accepted. 

“Alright, now that you’re settled, I’m going to go see how Rory’s doing,” Lorelai tells her, standing and heading up the stairs. “Make yourself at home, you can watch TV or turn all of my Post-its into paper swans or something. Whatever floats your boat.” 

Paris thanks her, neglecting to mention that she doesn’t actually know how to fold paper swans. She’d taken an origami class when she was little as part of her parents’ efforts to teach her to be sophisticated, but she only remembers how to make lotuses (into which she actually does fold one of Lorelai’s Post-its). 

She hears some of the vague squabbling sounds that she’d heard upon first arriving, and then the sound of a door opening and Lorelai marches proudly down the stairs, followed by an annoyed (also soaked) Rory. 

“Alright kids, I’ve got to do the inn, cya later!” Lorelai calls hurriedly as she sprints out the door. Once it’s shut, she adds, “feel free to call in a pizza!” 

Paris turns to Rory, fully taking her in. Her hair in particular is soaked, as though she’d taken her shower but had not made any attempt to dry off. It sticks to her back. Water droplets also glint across her face and drip down her eyelashes, drawing attention to her freckles and the blue shade of her eyes.

The outfit she’s wearing isn’t anything out of the ordinary, just a denim jacket over a maroon tank top, accompanied by a skirt that’s reminiscent of the ones that go with the Chilton uniforms, only it’s solid navy blue instead of plaid and much less ugly. It looks nice.

She also looks uncomfortable, which is the part of her appearance which Paris takes in first. It reaffirms the feeling that this had not been a great idea, though it’s too late to go back now. 

“She’s got to do the inn?” asks Paris in an attempt at starting conversation, taking on her usual sarcastic tone.

“Well, yeah. She works at the inn--” starts Rory.

“No, no, I know that, Gilmore,” clarifies Paris. “I was just joking about the way she phrased it.”

Rory gets an adorable look of understanding on her face. “Oh!”

“Yeah.” Paris nods as though this reaffirms her explanation. 

“So…” Rory’s eyes dart to the ground as she trails off. Paris notices that she’s fidgeting with the buttons of her denim jacket. “What’re you doing here? You’re always welcome, of course, it’s just that you didn’t call.” 

“When have you known me to call before a visit?” quips Paris in response, making an effort to scoot a little farther down the couch so that Rory can sit. She’s not sure why Rory’s acting so shy, given that she’s usually fairly outgoing.

“Never, that’s, uh, that’s true,” agrees Rory. She’s still got her head ducked down. Paris frowns.

“You know, if it’s not a good time I can leave.” Paris puts down her glass of water to point towards the door, only for Rory to go into a panic.

“No, no, it’s always a good time, what makes you think it isn’t? It’s a perfect time, because AP English and friendship and pizza, although you’re allergic to dairy, oh man does cheeseless pizza sucks. Don’t tell me you want cheeseless pizza, although I _would_ buy it for you.” Her head whirls frantically from side to side, and Paris has no idea what to make of it.

“First of all, I would never force cheeseless pizza onto you. Maybe somebody else, but I would take mercy on you. You know that, Gilmore. And second of all, I think that because you’re acting off.” Paris tilts her head to appraise her friend, who still refuses to make eye contact. “You won’t look at me.” 

Rory slowly raises her head, wiping a strand of still soaked brunette hair out of her eyes. She hesitates for a moment before delicately positioning the lock behind an ear and meeting Paris’s gaze. “I’m looking at you.” 

And suddenly Paris just feels bitter. She’d come all this way in hopes that she and Rory could be best friends or whatever, so that she could share the sunshine of Stars Hollow, no catch. Of course, there’s always gonna be a catch, whether it be Paris’s own feelings or Rory’s eyes that can never seem to settle on her face for more than a couple of seconds at a time (or, in this case, both). Paris stands.

“You know what, I think I need to leave.” She only means it to dismiss Rory from her company, but it comes out sounding slightly angrier than intended. 

“No, that’s not--” Rory’s hand wraps around Paris’s wrist. “Wait! It’s not you.”

Paris turns to face Rory, unimpressed. “Really.”

“Really,” affirms Rory, showing her an encouraging smile. 

“Then what is it?” challenges Paris, standing her ground as she plants a hand to her hip, evaluating the situation. Why is Rory acting like this? 

“I had no time to prepare, this is no _fair_.” Rory mumbles it, ducking her face down once more.

“No time to prepare for what?” Paris wants to know. In her mind, she’s already coming up with a thousand little scenarios, explanations for what Rory could possibly mean by this.

“The, uh, the AP English test tomorrow!” cries Rory dramatically. Then, just like a cartoon character, she falls backwards onto the floor. “I’m just really nervous about the test!”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Paris wipes her sweaty hands off on the sleeves of her sweater. It makes sense; this test is supposed to make up a large part of their grade, and Rory’s such a conscientious student that of _course_ she feels nervous about it. 

There’s still a part of her that’s doubtful, but for the most part this explanation really _does_ clear things up. Paris feels a burst of fondness for her at how much she cares about her grades. _I was just reading too much into it, I guess._

“Well, if that’s really all, I guess I can stay.” She sits down across from where Rory, wet hair splayed all around her head is lying, setting her backpack down besides her. 

Rory hoists herself up onto her forearms, using this position to then pull herself forwards into a sitting position. “Okay. Good.”

“But first you need a towel. I don’t know how you shower, whether or not you even know what a towel is, but I don’t want you dripping all over my notes.” Paris fixes Rory with a pointed glance. They’re beginning to fall back into their normal studying routine now.

“Oh! Got it.” Rory whirls her head around to face the bathroom, but her hair hits Paris in the face and leaves her dripping as well. She scowls with fond annoyance, using her poor sleeve as a makeshift towel for the second time in five minutes as Rory dashes towards the bathroom.

Nothing particularly unusual happens as they study. It’s something they’ve done together before, and doing practice essays and exchanging grammar questions just feels normal. It’s one of the things Paris likes about Rory. She makes her feel comfortable.

They stay on the floor, and Paris can feel the carpet dig into her elbows, but she doesn’t mind. Then, Rory yawns, her jaw unhinging and she motions into the other room.

“I’m gonna order us a pizza, okay?”

Paris nods, because she _is_ hungry. Nothing horrible happened the last time Rory had given her dairy anyways, so what the hell? 

She’s wondering what types of questions might be on the test, and it occurs to her that they’d done a quiz on it a couple weeks ago that could be of some use. Of course, Paris remembers with a twinge of annoyance, she’d forgotten to bring hers. She calls out to Rory before the girl can dial the number of the local pizza place.

“Rory!”

A response comes a moment later. “Yeah?” 

“You got your copy of the quiz from the sixth? It might help us.”

“Yeah,” calls Rory back. “I believe it’s in the blue folder in my backpack. My backpack’s in my room. You can go get it if you want.” 

Paris nods, shouting an affirmation at Rory before venturing into her room.

She likes Rory’s room, although the best way she can think of to describe it is _organized chaos_. The books sit neatly on their shelves, and the bulletin board covered in Harvard memorabilia looks very well thought out. And yet, trinkets of some sort cover every square inch of the room, and the desk is covered in papers. It’s all very Rory. 

The problem with there being so much in Rory’s room is that Paris can’t quite find her backpack. It’s _somewhere_ \--it’s gotta be--but certainly not in plain sight.

Then, Paris spots it sitting underneath Rory’s desk. She smiles, leaning down to grab it but hitting her head on the desk in the process. She scowls as a bunch of Rory’s unorganized papers float down around her head, falling gracefully to the floor. _I suppose I have to clean all of this up._

The papers are pretty much what Paris would expect Rory to have lying around. A flyer for a Stars Hollow event that’s going on later that month (perhaps the one Lorelai had been referring to earlier). A printed and highlighted article on how to study whilst blocking out all distraction. An old school paper that Rory’s only missed one point on, an enthusiastic _Great job!!!_ circled in red pen in the corner. 

Only one item catches Paris’s eye, this being because she recognizes the pristine white envelope and her own neat writing of _For Rory Gilmore_ on the front. 

A bit of lined paper pokes out of it, and Paris can also see handwriting on that. She’s not sure what possesses her to pull the sheet out of the envelope. She could steal it, but that would really only complicate things further. It was a letter addressed to Rory, anyways; she can hardly take it back now.

As she pulls at the sheet of paper, though, another one falls out. This one is covered in scribbles. Interested, Paris takes it. 

Words that are unmistakably copied down from her own letter cover the page, but only from the last paragraph. Rory has skipped lines and taken notes inbetween in the same purple pen from the story she’d written Paris. Most of the notes are scribbled out in frantic circles that swirl together to block the original writing. Only three words remain at the bottom, next to all the scribbled out annotations, and reading them makes Paris’s blood run cold. 

_She loves me?!?_

Paris feels her breathing get faster and hands get shaky as she stares, dumbfounded at the words on the page. _Shit,_ she thinks, relatively calmly. Then, in a panic, _Shit! Shit, shit!_

“You’re not stupid,” she breathes out loud, clasping the paper between her fingers and feeling like an idiot. Of _course_ Rory understands. She’s not too stupid to comprehend the letter’s subtext. She’s just too smart to let it show. “You’re not stupid.” 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Rory calls jauntily from the other room. “You find my backpack?”

Paris can’t even respond, just staring at the words before a blinding rage engulfs her. She feels her eyes go hot, her throat dry, and she wants nothing more to scream at Rory until she’s nothing more than a pile of ashes for making her look stupid. For just _letting_ Paris march into her house cheerfully like everything was normal so that she can laugh with her mother later about how damn _stupid_ Paris is, because Paris _knows_ they do that, even before now, and she can’t even think anymore for the white-hot anger and shame in her chest…

Lorelai’s mischievous smiles and overt good manners make sense now. She’d been in on it, too, despite her being an adult. _She’s a fucking adult._

“Um, Paris?” Rory persists, seemingly walking closer to where Paris sits on her floor. “The quiz?” 

“You bitch,” Paris hisses, and the rational part of her knows it’s not a good reaction, that she just needs to sit down and breathe, and yet she doesn’t do this. The instinctual, animalistic part of her won’t let her. 

“Paris, what do you mean?” Rory sounds distressed. “I thought we were cool, I thought we were friends...how, exactly, am I a bitch?” 

“I was so wrong about you,” Paris snaps, wiping at her eyes. “And so right about you. At any given point in time I was either so wrong or so right, because you’re--” She fumbles for an appropriate insult. “--you’re no better than Francie.”

“The hell, Par?” Now Rory sounds entirely distraught, her voice closer than ever. “That’s a low blow, what did I do?” 

Then she opens the door, and her face falls into an expression of horror as she sees what Paris has got in her hands. “Oh.” 

“Yeah, _oh,_ ” Paris scoffs. “I think I need to go.” In truth, she’s a moment’s panic from straight-up jumping through Rory’s window, glass and all. It wouldn’t even be the craziest thing Rory’s driven her to do. 

“I’m sorry I assumed you were in love with me,” Rory protests, using her body to block the door. _Okay. Window it is._ Paris could push past Rory with ease, but doesn’t really want to touch her. “That was stupid of me. You’re right, I’m an ass. My mom was saying things, and it got blown out of proportion, and you know what they say about assumptions, they make an ass out of you and me, so could we please just, like, hug it out or something?” 

Something in Rory’s voice makes Paris pause. She sounds genuinely mortified, genuinely sorry. She clearly believes what she’s saying, and it’s frustrating enough that Paris instantly rams herself into Rory, trying to push her out of the doorway so she can run off to Canada and never, ever come back. _They’ve got free healthcare over there, anything’s better than this humiliation…_

“Get out of the way!” Paris screeches angrily. Okay, so she’s either overestimated her own strength or Rory’s weakness, because the girl won’t budge. 

“You can leave, I can’t stop you, but please hear me out first,” Rory begs. “It worked last time, we can talk it out.” 

“Yeah, maybe if I wait it out I can get a ride with the fuckin’ pizza guy,” Paris snarks, continuing to push at Rory. 

“I’m sorry, okay? I’ll never make any assumptions about the state of our relationship again,” pleads Rory, sagging against the doorframe. Paris is briefly reminded of Lorelai leaning against the door earlier. 

“I’ll clock you in the face,” Paris persists, because she honestly can’t think of anything else to say. 

Rory lets out a weak chuckle. “No you won’t, Par.” The fact that she might be right makes Paris even angrier. “I know you like me alright. You said so yourself.” 

“I said you were a good person, not that I like you. I was wrong, anyways. You’re a shitty person.” She sighs harshly, backing away from Rory. “But you’re still not stupid.” 

“Well, maybe I am,” protests Rory. “Maybe I _am_ stupid. I let my mom convince me you were in love with me. I should’ve known. My mom’s always making jokes, right? This one just went too far.” 

“Your mom’s not stupid, either,” mutters Paris darkly, ducking her head so that Rory can’t look at her, can’t see the tears in her eyes. “I don’t think she was joking, in any event.” 

“But, Par.” Paris watches as Rory’s face cycles through shock, confusion, sadness, and something else Paris doesn’t care to decipher. “If she was right about us, then why are you acting like this?” 

Something about this lights an entirely new flame of anger in Paris, and she balls up her fists and shouts, “why am I acting like this? Why am I _acting_ like this?” She makes one more half-hearted attempt to use herself as a door jam, ramming her elbow into Rory’s stomach. Rory grasps at her chest, gasping air back into her lungs, but doesn’t move, and Paris gives up on making her. “You’re _messing_ with me. You only want to make fun of me, that’s how it’s always been!” 

Rory makes the same pained expression as when Paris had elbowed her in the stomach, but this time there’s no reason for it. She tentatively reaches out, putting a hand on Paris’s forearm. “Paris, that’s not what’s going on, I swear.” 

Paris jerks away from her touch, scowling. “Really.”

“Paris.” Rory looks straight-up sad now as she pleads with Paris. “ _You_ came _here_. I haven’t even talked to you since Friday. That’s hardly me looking for reasons to bully you.” 

This makes Paris stop, because it really _does_ make a certain amount of sense. If Rory were looking to heckle her, she would have gone about it much differently. Still, there’s no way she’s giving up this easily. “Your mom. She made me come in here, even when I tried to leave, and she offered me breadsticks and everything, and the whole time she was just looking at me like she knew something I didn’t.” 

Rory sighs, the pained expression coming back. She loosens her grip on the doorframe. “That’s still not--she wasn’t--I just think she has, like, some idea of us dating or something. That’s why she wanted you to come in so much.”

“Oh.” If what Rory is saying is true, Paris has nothing left to be angry about, and the anger transforms into shame. There’s still the residual anger, though, which she can’t quite banish, and Paris suddenly feels the urge to duck beneath her turtleneck, away from Rory’s pitiful frown. 

Then the doorbell sounds, and Rory wordlessly goes to get the door. Paris doesn’t take this opportunity to make a great escape, nor does she use it to rip papers she’d found in the envelope. She just stands there, listening to Rory wordlessly hand the delivery man a twenty, not saying anything other than _keep the change_. 

Paris finds herself sitting down on the edge of Rory’s bed, scowling as she tucks both papers back into the envelope, where they should’ve stayed. She sighs before chucking the thing back onto Rory’s desk where she’d found it, scattering more papers over the floor in the process. She doesn’t bother to pick these ones up off the ground. 

When Rory returns, she has a pizza box in one hand with a stack of paper plates on top of them. In the other hand she has a liter sized bottle of Coke, which Paris eyes suspiciously. 

“It’s six-thirty, should you really be drinking caffeine?” she asks dubiously, her voice still an upset mumble. 

“I think I can handle it,” Rory assures Paris, tentatively taking a seat next to her on the bed. “You can, too. We’ll share.” 

Paris’s eyes flicker over the single bottle, and some part of her way back in her mind has the audacity to worry about whether or not they’re going to be drinking from the same bottle. _Why is_ that _what I’m worried about right now?_

Rory smiles apologetically, apparently guessing what Paris is thinking. “I would’ve brought plastic cups, but my hands were full. I can go back and get one, if you want.” 

“No, this is fine,” Paris tells her in some last-ditch attempt to prove just how much she is _not_ fazed by Rory Gilmore. If she had to guess she would say that it doesn’t really work. 

“Great.” Rory sets the paper plates between them and tucks the Coke under her shoulder so she can open up the pizza box. The toppings are ham and some chunks of something pungent and yellow that Paris thinks might be--

“Pineapple?” She wipes her forearm over her face before fixing Rory with a doubtful grimace. Rory laughs, and it’s a gentle, melodic sound. 

“I figure anyone who’s okay with eating cheeseless pizza can handle Hawaiian,” she explains as she peels a slice from the bottom of the box. “Mostly I just get it whenever I don’t want my mom to take any.” 

Paris watches as Rory fumbles not to drop the Coke from under her arm whilst handing her the paper plate. It draws a weak smile from her.

“Alright, now talk,” Rory orders her once they’ve both got a slice, Rory two. The box sits behind them on the bed. 

“No, you talk,” Paris retaliates, and though it’s mostly just an instinctive reaction she’s still glad when Rory considers it.

“Alright, fine, but you’ve still gotta talk when I’m done. Deal?” She looks at Paris hopefully, almost pleadingly.

Not trusting herself to speak, Paris rips a bite off of her slice of pizza to excuse herself from answering verbally and instead nods. 

“Alright. Great.” Rory takes a deep breath as she twists the top off of the soda, the insides bubbling a little before settling down. Rory takes a quick sip to neutralize the danger of it spilling before she speaks. “So, it’s been a while since I’ve last been in a relationship.” 

Paris makes a vague noise of agreement, still not trusting her voice to stay steady. She’s well aware of how things ended with Dean and Jess, the seemingly sturdy brick wall of Rory’s love life tumbling down on everyone around her as soon as the latter had waltzed into town. She seems to remember hearing stories about a fistfight and a dance marathon, though she’s a bit fuzzy on the details. 

“I told you about Dean’s car. That he made me. That was, wow. It was wow.”

“It seems like a bit much.” Paris braves a mutter, looking down at her pizza instead of at Rory. 

“Yeah. It _was_ a bit much, and I’m still not sure I was entirely comfortable with it.” She gives a shaky laugh. “I think my problem with Dean was that he was always my boyfriend first and my friend second. He was always trying to do things like build me cars, but we were just kids and I would have preferred it if we could have just done more normal kid stuff.”

“What even happened to that car?” Paris wonders out loud, curiosity briefly trumping nerves and anger. She knows Rory doesn’t have the car anymore, at any rate. 

“That was,” Rory sucks in a deep breath. “That was...yikes. To put it shortly, Jess happened.”

Paris laughs, though there’s little humor in it. “Oh, that’s right. Asshole broke your arm, didn’t he?” Rory nods, the ghost of a smile twitching on her lips. “But what’s the point to all this?” 

“My point is that in the past, I was trying way too hard to find the person who I wanted to be with. See a boy, think _oh, he’s cute,_ and the next thing I know I’m a sixteen-year-old in a committed relationship just because I felt like it was what was expected of me.” 

“I feel that,” Paris sympathises, gently prying the soda from Rory’s hand and taking a sip. “Like how I thought I had a thing for Tristan despite his being a total ass.” 

“Exactly,” says Rory with an approving nod. “Of course, I actually _was_ into them, just maybe not as deeply as I convinced myself that I was.” 

“It was more real with Jess than it was with Dean, wasn’t it?” guesses Paris. 

“Yeah.” Rory agrees. “Anyways, all this is to say that maybe if I’d just let everything play out the way it was intended, without, you know, societal convention and all that, my heart would have led me to you.” She turns to Paris shyly, eyes darting around before finally meeting hers. 

Paris’s own heart thumps wildly, fight-or-flight instincts kicking in as she feels herself unable to move, just locked into Rory’s eyes. “W-well that’s cheesy as all hell,” she finally manages. 

To her surprise, Rory just laughs. Loudly, then she smiles, inching closer to Paris. “Yeah. I suppose it is.” Her eyes go out of focus and Paris can only imagine that she’s remembering something. “I realized all of this last Friday, when my mom pointed it out.”

“That must have been a fun Friday Night Dinner,” Paris comments, as Rory has told her all about the woes of visiting the elder Gilmores at the end of every week. 

In response, Rory buries her face in her hands. “Good God was it ever. My mom kept shooting me these looks, and my grandma kept sighing disapprovingly and making passive-aggressive comments about how _oh well, I guess we’re just not interesting enough.”_ She imitates Emily’s voice for the last part. 

Paris can very vividly imagine the scene, knowing all too well what dinner with an elite family is like. The fact that Rory’s Emily impression is so well-done puts a smile on her face as well. “What about your grandpa?”

“He kept smiling proudly and saying that a wandering mind is the sign of a great writer in the making. I appreciated that, but it was still frustrating.” 

This only adds to the mental picture in Paris’s head, and she once more finds herself staring down at her pizza. 

“Alright, so I talked, now it’s your turn,” prompts Rory gently, softly putting a hand on Paris’s arm. The latter looks up, taking a moment to pull a fresh slice from the box behind them to gather her courage. 

“Okay.” She opens her mouth, only to find that she’s not sure what to say, and so she closes it again. This cycle repeats a couple of times but Rory remains patient, and her hand remains on Paris’s arm. In the end, the main reason why Paris takes a deep breath and starts talking is that she’s never been one to back away from a challenge. 

“I…” Paris trails off, apparently still unsure. _Get your shit together, Paris,_ she tells herself sharply. “I have a tendency to get angry a lot, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Yeah, I have,” Rory agrees, but her voice isn’t at all judgemental.

“You told me that one time that you have a habit of not taking anything seriously as a way of coping with your feelings, and for me, I guess it’s like that with anger. It’s so much easier to yell at everyone sometimes, and from time to time I try to break from that, but it’s hard.”

The way Rory looks at her is almost sympathetically, and Paris feels herself losing her hard edge. If her anger and frustration could just vanish she’d be more than happy to fall against Rory’s shoulder and hibernate through the winter. 

“I sort of figured,” says Rory. Paris tries to focus on the lock of brunette hair slipping over her cheek instead of the growing look of melancholy on her face. 

“You know, life is stressful. Stress leads to more stress and unresolved bitterness and shit. Hence the yelling.” Paris tacks on the last part almost as an afterthought. “And then you know how it goes after that. Smart and pretty new girl waltzes in. Feelings are had. Shit is lost.” It’s not the most eloquent way of describing her feelings, and Paris’s tone is hardly louder than a whisper, but Rory seems to get it, chuckling lightly as she leans into Paris’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, well, don’t worry about it. I’m just glad you don’t actually hate my guts,” she consoles Paris, a teasing grin on her lips. She wears a thin layer of lipgloss, Paris notices. She must have applied it when Paris had banished her to the bathroom to go dry her hair. 

“So, are we good now?” Paris presses, hoping that they can be done with the whole talking-about-feelings thing because she’d much rather they just have a normal chat about school and the weather and eat pizza. 

A delicate frown replaces Rory’s smile from before. “Actually, I was hoping to ask you about one more thing.”

“Oh, yeah, what might that be?” Paris inquires, vaguely dreading the answer. 

“You said in your letter…” Rory trails off for a moment to go to her desk and take the envelope from off of the pile of papers. Paris mourns the loss of the girl’s hand on her arm. “You said this.” She points to a line on the page. Paris reads it.

_I could never be friends with you, though. You’re too good, but even beyond that it wouldn’t work. You live in your own little world of sunshine and rainbows. I should know...I belong in my world and you belong in yours, and there’s nothing we can do about that…_

“So what’s that about?” Rory asks Paris, sporting a pained look of concern. “You know none of that is true.”

“I don’t know.” Paris shrugs helplessly, wincing away from the written text. “I guess I just feel separated from you somehow. Like since you live so differently from me, you’re unreachable. Too nice.” 

“Oh, Paris.” Rory sighs fondly, almost knowingly, then leans into Paris and wraps her arm around her shoulders, pizza abandoned. Paris can feel Rory’s cheek against her shoulder and the admiring gaze of her blue eyes. “You can come to Stars Hollow anytime you want, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” says Paris. She doesn’t lean into Rory’s touch but she also doesn’t resist, because it’s comfortable and even if things don’t work out between them and this comes back to haunt her later, she’s _enjoying_ herself, damn it. “I’ve come here unannounced like, seven times. Today not even included.” 

“You do that a lot, don’t you?” Rory observes. Paris blushes, and opens her mouth to defend herself only to be cut off. “Don’t stop. I like it. A lot.” 

“If you say so.” Rory has now turned to Paris so that both of her arms are wrapped around the same shoulder, fingers laced where they meet. Her chin is propped up on Paris’s shoulder, and she’s facing Paris’s neck so that to look at her Paris has to turn her head and look down. 

She does so, and they find themselves face to face, mere inches from eachother, and Paris once more notices how pretty Rory is. Her hair is still a little bit wet, and it’s pushed back and a little darker than usual. Her eyes are bright blue and soulful, and freckles dot her nose. She represents everything Paris could ever want, the warmth her own life lacks but in which Rory’s is so abundant. 

“I…” Paris isn’t quite sure what to say, but she settles for, “I want to be with you.” 

“Yeah, well, me too,” Rory tells her, grinning widely now. “We should do everything together. Eat pizza, like right now, but also, like, go on dates and stuff. I can take you to all of the silly Stars Hollow festivals and fairs while we hold hands and you can complain but secretly enjoy it, and when I let you taste my pumpkin spice lattes you can lecture me on how much sugar goes into them, and we can study together, too. If that sounds too cheesy for you then tell me now and this can be a thing of the past, but I-I’d really like it.” 

“That sounds perfect,” Paris tells her, because it really, truly, does. It sounds entirely worth any amount of teasing they’ll inevitably have to endure from Lorelai, and worth the silent intimidating glares they’ll get from Emily during the short period of time in which they won’t _quite_ have told her about their relationship yet but she still vaguely knows what’s going on. “Just...only if it’s real.” 

“Of _course_ it’s real,” Rory tells her, and with her wide, bright eyes staring up at Paris like she’s the center of her universe Paris feels inclined to believe it. 

Then they’re kissing, and it’s the best kiss of Paris’s life--not that she has much to compare it to, only Tristan in sixth grade and Tristan a couple years ago, but it’s amazing whether or not the comparison holds any weight and Paris can finally see why Madeline and Louise love kissing boys so much. 

Once they break apart, they’re not touching anymore, just sitting in their own little bubbles of space, Paris silently grinning to herself. She’s sure her cheeks have turned pink. “And, Rory?” she adds hesitantly.

“Hm?” 

“About being a jerk to you for the past couple of years, I’m--” She cringes, not quite able to get the syllable out. “I’m…”

“It’s okay.” 

They kiss again, and then Lorelai gets home. They blush and avoid eachother’s gazes a lot. Paris stays to watch a movie that Lorelai claims is a classic, then drives home in her BMV after successfully evading Lorleai’s incessant fretting about whether or not she’s okay to drive in the dark. All in all, not a bad night. Maybe one of the best nights Paris has ever had, though she cautiously suspects that there will be more great nights to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm not entirely happy with the pacing and there are some minor formatting issues, but I feel like I did decently well. I'm just glad I was able to keep my word about having it done today. Hope you enjoyed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I've left you on a pretty big cliffhanger here but not to worry, there will be a second (and final) chapter. I expect it will be around as long as this one and maybe from Paris's perspective, just to keep things interesting. It should come out by around this time next week, I've been pretty bored lately so honestly don't be surprised if it comes out even earlier. Comments and kudos are appreciated, and be sure to let me know if there are any glaring grammar issues or anything like that :)


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